


exit wounds

by leprixx



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3216716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leprixx/pseuds/leprixx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Needle, an indefinite length of thread, blood. Frankenstein's monster wearing a single skin, criss-crossed in betrayal and revenge and jealousy and all the things he regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	exit wounds

Hannibal stitches him up. Looking back through the fogged up glass of what's left of his memories, this is how it starts: a needle, an indefinite length of thread, blood. Frankenstein's monster wearing a single skin, criss-crossed in betrayal and revenge and jealousy and all the things he regrets.

\--

Somewhere, whitening in winter: 

A pale girl wearing her mirror-scars in likeness of Christ nailed to a cross; _you did this i gave up everything for you i died for your sins i touched your leper skin i bathed your wounds i handed you sustenance from my flesh i shall ascend into the holiness of heaven_. Dragging her own weight and more in _don't touch me, don't touch, don't_.

He stays back, watches her lips pale whenever Hannibal nears, the fine trembling in her hands reminding him distantly of the meat-and-fluid creature he once was. 

_Touch me, please._

\--

"Eat"

Abigail is past the point of swallowing, her plate a canvas of ingestion. Hannibal is sitting close to her, to his Abigail, constructing solidly the intimacy he constantly requests of her- _stay close, don't test me, don't speak to him_.

Will looks down, at the plate stationed before him, diminute quantity of dinner untouched and growing cold. On his thighs, scarred hands clench around soft fabric and sharp bone. His gaze stays on cutlery and fine porcelain, avoiding eyes with ingrained obedience and habitual something. Something, some things - he's glad he's forgotten.

Abigail is sitting across from him, a bit to the left, wearing a blood red sweater. Will can feel her fear for him as if his own. He doesn't eat.

\--

An ocean away, his life was a bruise that refused to heal, blackening and yellowing in turns, sore to the point of freezing him in sleep paralysis every other night, enormous antlers pressing down his ribcage while wendigo-sharp teeth ravage his guts, his voice taken and held back for when Hannibal allows him. 

These days, he finds himself allowed the freedom of his voice whenever Hannibal is feeling whatever it is that makes him enjoy the punishments he doles out as soon as Will chokes on words and disobeys without meaning to.

\--

"The weather has been kind to us this past week" Hannibal muses, hands resting with calculated impression of casualty on dark brown curls. Will is kneeling by him, bare knees starting to relax into the soft grass.

"I'm glad" Abigail replies, not looking up from the book she has resting a few feet away from Will's discarded shirt. Her own shirt is carefully folded in one of the outdoor chairs, the straps of her soft blue bra adding to the delicacy of the map her veins create under her skin. She knows better than not giving Hannibal her full attention, but today marks it her first year under Hannibal's mercy and he is affecting them with fake indulgence, in place of however it is that he truly expresses his affections. 

"You can take Will on a swim with the dogs later, if you so please," Hannibal cards his fingers through Will's hair, a warning, and all he can think of is how strange it is that Hannibal has bare ankles and feet poking out from his tailored pants, how peculiar that even this doesn't register as a vulnerability but instead as power - _you will not run, my feet will not cut in rocks in purchase of your attempts of freedom, you will do solely what i allow_.

\--

The dogs, loosely called so, behave more like wolves. They are such, probably, aggressive with strangers and refusing Will's touch even though they all pile around him whenever he is allowed on his bed. 

Arriving to the lake, Abigail's shoulders have been pinked by the midday-sun and Will has grown breathless from the trek, weighted down by his years and scars. Someone his age should have more energy, were they not bearing all his scars and terrors. Were they not a victim of Hannibal Lecter or any of his machineries.

"Go on," Abigail urges, careful to address the dogs and pretend Will is nothing more, obeying their captor even though Hannibal is nowhere near, still on the house's well stocked kitchen and busy preparing dinner. 

The bigger dog jumps, followed by another and then Will, who sits at the lake's bank and slowly descends into water, letting the coldness create goosebumps on his shoulders and swallowing back his urge to complain, to stop, to plead. There is no place for uncalled weakness, here.  
\--


End file.
